by Linda Green
Our front door opens straight onto the street and the back door onto our yard behind. If I can ever afford a flat in Leeds (which is doubtful), I’ve already decided I’ll get one high up, so people walking past can’t have a good gander inside when you open the door.
I go in the back way, as usual. Dad’s in the kitchen, Monday being a rare evening off for him because the Italian restaurant where he works is closed.
‘Smells good,’ I say. Dad looks up from the pan he’s stirring, his gaze immediately dropping from my face to the flowers.
‘They’re nice.’
‘Yeah.’ I put the flowers on the kitchen counter, knowing full well that I’m not going to get away with that answer.
‘So, who are they from?’ Dad is still stirring the vegetables on the back hob, trying to pretend he’s not that interested.
‘A guy I met at the station this morning.’
He nods slowly and puts the wooden spoon down on the chopping board.
‘That was nice of him.’ Dad’s tone suggests he actually thinks the man in question is a serial killer. I decide to get it all out in one go.
‘Yeah. I’m going for a meal with him on Wednesday.’
‘Are you now?’ Dad picks up the spoon again and stirs with an intensity that is entirely unnecessary.
‘How old is he, this guy?’
‘I’d say seventies, maybe eighty at a push.’
He turns to face me. I have the smile ready prepared for him.
‘Very droll,’ he says.
‘Well, what do you expect? He looks like he’s in his late twenties but I don’t know. I’ll take a questionnaire with me on Wednesday, if you like.’
‘So you’ve never met him before?’
‘Nope.’
‘And he just walked up to you this morning and gave you flowers and asked you out?’
‘Yep. That’s pretty much how it was.’
‘Doesn’t that strike you as a bit weird?’
‘Not really.’ I was starting to think it would have been easier to tell him about the arse groper after all.
‘It sounds a bit weird to me.’
‘Look, you’ve got to let me do normal stuff like this.’
‘It’s not normal, though, is it? Giving flowers to someone you don’t know. Maybe he does this all the time. Some kind of scam he pulls on pretty girls.’
‘Dad, I can’t win with you. You’re the one who always used to tell me to get out more.’
‘Yeah, I didn’t mean with a stranger.’
‘Well, he’s not a stranger now, is he? He gave me flowers and asked me out. I said yes. I thought you’d be pleased.’
This is a lie. I knew he’d be exactly like this but I also know how to play him in an argument. He looks down at his feet.
‘I’m happy for you. It’s just that after last time I, you know, I don’t want to see you get hurt.’
‘Callum was an emotionally inadequate bastard.’
‘Jess.’
‘Well, he was! And I’ve grown up a lot since then – I’m not going to make the same mistake again, am I?’
‘So how do you know this guy’s not like that?’
‘I don’t yet, but he gave me flowers, which is a pretty good start, and if I don’t like him on Wednesday I won’t see him again. Simples.’
Dad nods. He is trying his best to be two parents rolled into one, I know that. But I still wish Mum was around to tell him to let me learn from my own mistakes.
‘OK. I’ll give him a chance. What’s his name?’
‘Voldemort.’
For the first time in the conversation, Dad manages a smile.
‘Really?’
‘His name is Lee and he’s the associate director of a PR firm in Leeds and I don’t know anything else about him – but if you submit your questions by midnight tomorrow, I’ll be sure to put them to him over dinner, OK?’
I flounce out of the kitchen and up to my room. When I return ten minutes later, Dad has put the flowers in a vase. I smile at him. Sometimes he tries so hard it hurts.
Sadie Ward Jess Mount
2 mins
Your dad just told me. I can’t believe you’re gone. Can’t believe you’re never going to crack me up laughing again. I’m so, so sorry I couldn’t save you. Love you forever. RIP Jess.
Jess
Monday, 11 January 2016
I’m in my room later when I see Sadie’s post. It’s the photo I see first, one of Sadie and I when we were at primary school. My socks are around my ankles and I have messy hair. We are both grinning inanely. I am about to message her when I read the words she has posted above it.
I read them again, twice more, sure I have missed something. I wait for another post to pop up from her saying it was a joke. It doesn’t. I call her.
‘Why did you just post that?’
‘What?’
‘That RIP thing on Facebook.’
‘About Bowie?’
‘No, about me.’
‘I didn’t post anything about you.’
‘You did. To my timeline. Two minutes ago. A photo of us at primary school and stuff about how you can’t believe that I’m gone and you’re so sorry you couldn’t save me. You basically said I was dead.’
‘Why would I do that?’
‘I don’t know. That’s why I called you.’
‘I honestly haven’t posted a thing.’
‘Check Facebook now. You’ll see it.’
‘OK.’ It goes quiet at the other end of the phone for a minute. ‘There’s nothing there,’ she says. ‘I haven’t posted anything for hours and I’ve looked on your timeline and there’s nothing there either.’
I look again at my phone and read the post out to her.
‘That’s really sick. I’d never do that. Not even as a joke.’
A comment comes up underneath Sadie’s post from Adrian at work.
‘Listen,’ I say, ‘Adrian’s just posted this: “Oh Jess, so sad to lose you. Will miss your smile and the laughs we had together. RIP sweetie.”’
‘Maybe someone’s hacked your account,’ says Sadie. ‘I wouldn’t put it past Nina. She could have got hold of your phone or something.’
‘But how come I can see it and you can’t?’
‘I dunno. Maybe there’s some way you can do that.’
‘Well, they must have hacked into yours as well because the post’s from your account.’
‘Change your password. I’ll change mine too. That should put a stop to it.’
‘OK. I’ll call you back in a bit.’
I go into my account. I’m rubbish at remembering passwords so I have to write down the new one as soon as I’ve changed it. I log out of Facebook then log in again and go back to my timeline. There are now eleven comments underneath Sadie’s post, a couple of them from people I haven’t seen since I left school and who I unfollowed on Facebook long ago. I have no idea how this is happening but I am going to put a stop to it straight away. I begin to type: Ha, ha, very funny. It seems the news of my death has been greatly exaggerated – which I seem to remember was a line from a book or a play or something. I post it. It doesn’t appear. I post it again, twice more in fact. Still nothing. I don’t get it. I don’t get what’s happening. I call Sadie back.
‘I changed my password but it’s still there. Lots of people have posted comments on it but I can’t, it won’t let me.’
‘Maybe it’s a virus or something.’
‘And you’re sure you can’t see it?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘I don’t understand how that’s even possible.’
‘It’ll be some thirteen-year-old hacker who’s bored stiff doing his maths homework and gets off on doing sick things like this.’
I sigh and shake
my head.
‘So what do you think I should do?’
‘Do a virus scan. That should get rid of it. And if no one else can see it apart from you, there’s no harm done, is there?’
‘But what if the people who commented can see it? What if they think I’m actually dead?’
‘Well, Adrian would have messaged me for a start, wouldn’t he?’
‘I guess so.’ Adrian is lovely. I’m actually touched that he sounded so gutted in his comment. Which is really stupid, I know.
‘But the things people have said in their comments,’ I continue. ‘They actually sound like the sort of thing they would say.’
‘Well, nobody’s going to say they’re delighted you’ve popped your clogs, are they? Everyone says the same stuff when people die.’
‘Adrian called me sweetie. How would they know he calls me sweetie?’
‘Probably because he calls everybody sweetie on Facebook? There’s probably some algorithm that tells you what words people use most.’
‘What if you were right about Nina, though? Maybe she has got something to do with it.’
‘She might have the motivation but I’m not sure she’s actually bright enough to do it.’
‘Well, who else hates me, then?’
‘No one hates you, Jess.’
‘What about Callum?’
‘He’s hardly super-brain league either, is he?’
‘Why didn’t you tell me that at the time?’
‘Because you wouldn’t have listened. Anyway, why don’t you front Nina up in the morning and see what she says. And quit worrying. You’re clearly alive. OK?’
‘Yeah.’
There is a pause on the other end of the line. I have a feeling I know what Sadie is going to say next.
‘You are OK, aren’t you? I mean you’d say if . . .’
‘I’m fine.’
‘And you would tell me if you weren’t?’
‘You know I would.’
‘Good. Now turn your phone off, do a virus scan on your laptop, zap anything that comes up and I bet when you look in the morning there’ll be nothing there.’
‘OK. Thanks. See you tomorrow.’
I put my phone down and open my laptop. Maybe I won’t even be able to see it on there. It might only have been on my phone. I click on Facebook and scroll through everyone’s posts from the past couple of hours. Nothing. The photo isn’t there. I click on my timeline to double-check. Sadie’s post comes up straight away. There are loads of comments now. People asking what happened. And others have started posting to my timeline. Jules from college and Tariq from work and a couple of Mum’s friends. They all say the same: that they’re in shock; they can’t believe I’ve gone. That it’s too much for one family to bear.
I brush the tears away from my cheeks and tell myself not to be so stupid. If it is a virus, the person who created it won’t have stopped to think how upsetting it is for someone who has lost a loved one. Sadie’s probably right – it’ll be some kid who’s bored out of his brain and thought it would be a laugh. I shouldn’t take it so personally.
I can hear voices on the television drifting up from downstairs. It doesn’t sound like football – maybe it’s a cookery programme. They’re about the only two things Dad watches. I wonder for a moment about going down to join him, just to clear my head. Snuggling up on the sofa together like we used to do. He’d like it. He always says we don’t spend enough time together. I decide against it, though. He’d probably ask me what was wrong. Either that or start quizzing me about Lee again.
I get my earphones, push them into my phone and play the first thing that comes up on the menu. But I can’t stop thinking about the post. I suddenly remember the arse groper at the station. What if he’s an IT nerd who has decided to get his own back on me for his public humiliation this morning? What if he’s somehow managed to find my photo and track me down online?
I pull my earphones out and throw the phone across the bed. I get up, go over to the laptop and start a virus security scan. I’ll leave it running overnight and by the morning the whole thing will be gone.
Joe Mount
12 July 2017 • Mytholmroyd, United Kingdom
I’m heartbroken to say that my beloved daughter Jess died yesterday following an accident. I’ve lost my little girl and I don’t have the words to say what she meant to me. My only comfort is that she will at least be with her mum and that Deborah will take care of her for us. RIP beautiful girl.
Jess
Tuesday, 12 January 2016
I died in an accident. I screw my eyes up tight and then open them again, just to make sure that I am fully awake. The words in front of me remain the same. I go cold inside. The overnight laptop security scan came up clear. No viruses found. Probably the only time someone has been disappointed to hear that. Because, if it’s not a virus, what the hell is it? I am about to phone Sadie when I realise there’s no point – she won’t be able to see it. I’ll have to show her the posts on the train. That way she’ll know I’m not making it up.
I read Dad’s words again, tears pricking the corners of my eyes. They sound like the words he would use. I can see him sitting there, typing it with two fingers on his keyboard (he never does posts from his phone. He says his fingers are too big for the buttons and he doesn’t get on with predictive text). His eyes are red. A scrunched-up tissue is poking out of the pocket of his favourite cardigan – the grey one Mum got him the Christmas before she died. This feels too real, far too real for my liking. It doesn’t feel random. It doesn’t feel like some hacker messing around. It feels like whoever is doing this is getting at me on purpose.
It is only when I go to read the post for a third time that I notice the date above it: 12 July 2017. I stare at it for a long time, my brain trying to process what my eyes are seeing. How can someone change the date on Facebook? That’s eighteen months from now. Eighteen months exactly. I scroll down to last night’s posts. At the time I read them, they just had 2 minutes ago or 1 hour ago above them. Now Sadie’s says 11 July 2017. My breaths are coming fast and shallow. I Google ‘How to change the dates on Facebook’. There is a surge of relief when I see that you can. Apparently, you can change the dates of posts to as far back as 1 January 1905. But a second later I am reading that you can’t change the dates of posts to the future. Can’t. As in, impossible.
Someone is screwing with my mind. Maybe some kid I used to go to school with who knows what happened to me, who thinks it would be funny to freak me out like this. There are a few comments below Dad’s post now. One from my cousin Connie in Italy. She’s done a breaking-heart emoji at the end of it. And another from a chef at the restaurant where Dad works, saying how sorry he is for his loss.
Nobody has asked yet what kind of accident. I probably got run over by a bus. That’s the sort of stupid thing a space cadet like me would do. Probably looking at my phone at the time. I find myself thinking that I hope it wasn’t messy. That, however I died, people didn’t have to scoop up parts of me from the road. I wouldn’t like that. Wouldn’t like it at all.
I’m not going to let them get to me like this. I’ll report it to Facebook, let them find out who is doing it and have them blocked or whatever. They can get the police involved if they want, or at least threaten them with it. I just want it stopped.
I pull my dressing gown on. It’s a huge purple fluffy thing; Sadie says it makes me look like an extra from Monsters, Inc. I pad across the landing to the bathroom. I can hear Dad downstairs in the kitchen. I try to get the image of him sitting at his laptop, crying, out of my head.
Usually, I turn the temperature in the shower down when I use it after Dad. He likes his showers hotter than me, like he drinks his tea hotter than me. But today I leave it where it is, welcoming anything that takes my mind off what is happening – even the scorching sensation as the water hits my bod
y. My skin is decidedly pinker than usual by the time I step out. I grab my towel off the rail above the radiator and hug it around me. It’s one of the things I always remember about Mum: her rubbing me dry after a bath when I was a kid and singing cheesy eighties’ pop songs to me.
By the time I make it down to the kitchen, Dad is on what I suspect is his third coffee of the day. He smiles and comes over and kisses me on the forehead. Sometimes I pull away and remind him that I am no longer seven years old. Today I don’t say anything, just give him a little smile back. I know he won’t have checked Facebook yet. He doesn’t even bother turning his phone on until he leaves for work some days. I’m pretty sure he won’t be able to see the posts, though. And for that I am mightily relieved.
‘You OK?’ he asks.
‘Yeah, not a great night’s sleep, that’s all.’
‘Were you cold? I’ll put an extra blanket in there for you if you want.’
‘No. Just couldn’t get to sleep for ages.’
He nods. I catch sight of the flowers, still in the same spot on the table as last night. I’d almost forgotten about Lee with everything that has been happening.
‘Early night tonight then, before your big date,’ Dad says, bringing over my mug and putting it down in front of me.
‘It’s not a big date,’ I say.
‘What is it then?’
‘A meal. That’s all.’
‘Right,’ he says with a wink. I look down; I can’t even look him in the eye without thinking about it. What it would do to him if I died.
*
I meet Sadie on the platform as usual. We’re not always on the same shifts, but if it’s Chris or Liz doing the rota they try to make sure we are. People used to take the piss out of us at secondary school. My English teacher called us Jessadie because he said we were inseparable, like conjoined twins. I’ve always liked it though, having one best friend rather than being part of a big gaggle. Or a threesome. Threes were a nightmare at school because you never knew who to sit next to.